


And It Spread

by altered_eagle



Series: City Goblins [11]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce Wayne whump, Caretaking, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical, Sickfic, The Babysitter's Club - Freeform, apparently i hadn't made Bruce suffer enough so, self-indulgence at its finest, straight up, welp, y'all know the drill by now right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-02 09:48:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10941975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altered_eagle/pseuds/altered_eagle
Summary: By the time they arrive at the manor the aura will be gone, replaced by nausea and vertigo.By the time they arrive at the manor Wayne will be deep into the pain stage, with little hope of escape.At least he knows what’s coming.





	And It Spread

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a big sappy sickfic inspired by a big sappy song with lots of h/c for y'all. Bless yer heart [synthwave](http://archiveofourown.org/users/synthwave) for all yer help.
> 
> Tw for stuff with needles and (somewhat) graphic descriptions of illness. This one is a tad more gnarly than my other stuff though so just. Know that

“Then you came back from space  
With a brand new laugh and a different face  
You took my hand and held it up  
And shot my arm full of love”  
—[And It Spread: The Avett Brothers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jkQGC-gFCiI)

Halloween’s pretty rough on Gotham. The Joker usually saves his most heinous stunts for a few days before or after just to maintain the element of surprise, but on the thirty-first of October the Hangman and her crew always make Batman’s life hell.

Now it’s nearing dawn after the big night and a local officer and his family are dead the Hangman’s long gone and Batman’s slumped in the front seat of his arch enemy’s 1983 Chevy G20, 

headed home. 

_Of all the days to forget my goddamned autoinjector,_ Wayne growls as he pulls off his cowl.

_Nobody’s perfect_ , the Joker murmurs. He’s kept his voice soft since they first spoke. _Try to sleep for a bit okay._ Wayne closes his eyes against the static chains filling his vision but he can still see them zigzagging behind his lids, he can still feel every headlight  
of every car  
coming at them too bright. 

By the time they arrive at the manor the aura will be gone, replaced by nausea and vertigo.

By the time they arrive at the manor Wayne will be deep into the pain stage, with little hope of escape. 

At least he knows what’s coming.

* * *

By the time the Joker pulls into the cave Wayne’s injured ribs are aching and the tiny pulse of pain behind his left eyeball has grown from a pinpoint to a needle to a nine-inch nail driving itself into his temple over and over and over 

_What—_ Alfred starts but the Joker puts a finger to his lips and points at Wayne’s head. Wayne’s butler falls silent and immediately lowers the lights, muttering something at the Joker about how stress usually sets off Wayne’s migraines

_He didn’t have anything to do with this,_ Wayne mumbles. _All he did was pick me up when i asked him to._ Alfred doesn’t respond, but the frown on his face becomes a little less stern. Wayne swallows and lowers his head again as two pairs of hands begin to strip his armor away. He’s been nauseous ever since the Joker took a turn too sharply, and the vertigo hovers just at the edges of his awareness threatening to tilt the floor out from under him. Once Wayne’s free of Batman’s suit he leans back against the seat but then

the clown’s reaching for him, taking him under the arms

_You want to be in the bathroom right._ Wayne nods and presses one hand to his ribs as the Joker lifts him. He keeps his eyes shut while the other man shepherds him in the direction of the infirmary, then  
his bare feet hit the smooth tile of the bathroom floor and the Joker’s steadying him while he grabs half-blindly for the bar on the wall above the toilet tank to lower himself down. He’d had the grab bars installed after his second year of Being Batman. 

The lights are off and the Joker leaves them off and asks if Wayne wants him to leave him alone. Wayne nods into the toilet, and a blanket drapes around his shoulders. _I’m gonna go chat with your butler for a second,_ he whispers. _Remember to brace your ribs. We’ll be outside the door if you need anything okay._

_Okay,_ Wayne breathes and feels the press of a wet painted kiss against his left temple, then another just behind his left ear. Then the Joker slinks out of the room, leaves Wayne there shivering and sweating and trying to ignore the steady worsening of his nausea. His migraines always follow the same pattern. 

(At least he knows what’s coming.) 

The two of them are talking quietly outside the door so Wayne hones in on the low clipped consonants, trying to figure out what they plan to do with him:

_He’s got a few ribs on the left side that are either bruised or cracked but nothing besides that. i found him sitting in a stairwell with his head in his hands. Think he took a pill but he must’ve waited too long; he told me that the aura was so bad he could barely see._

_Were **you** seen? On the way here?_

_Nah, the asswagon's got tinted windows._

_The. The what now._

_My van—it's called the Asswagon, listen i’ll just. Sit with Bruce for a minute, then i’ll get out of your hair okay._

_I think...he would prefer you to stay._

_Is that alright with you?_

Wayne doesn’t hear Alfred’s reply because the nausea has become too insistent and there’s saliva pooling in his mouth and he thought he wanted to be alone but he doesn’t (not for this) he’s calling out _Joker?_ in a strangled voice that’s as far a cry from Batman’s growl as it’s ever been then 

Wayne’s stomach contracts and he’s gagging and just like that 

the bloodsweatgunpowder surrounds him, Wayne feels the clown kneeling down feels the clown’s hair tickling his neck feels a hand covering his own, interlocking their fingers and pressing down hard against Wayne’s side to help relieve more of the strain as he heaves. The pressure on Wayne’s ribs hurts like hell but it’s preferable to having them jarred every time he coughs and retches

_Sorry,_ he chokes out. _i didn’t—_

_Shhh._ A tissue finds its way into Wayne’s hand. He’s barely wiped his mouth before his stomach cramps again and he’s throwing up so violently that it splashes back into his face and his hair, his head is throbbing and his throat is scalded he’s adrift in a sea of shock and nausea until he comes down enough to feel the Joker’s hand on his back and an ice pack pressed against his neck,

and it’s heaven.

_Yeah, there goes your imitrex,_ the Joker murmurs. Wayne slits his eyes open enough to watch the partially-dissolved pill sink to the bottom of the bowl and his heart sinks right along with it _Jesus christ Bruce what did you eat, a caesar fucking salad._

_Corn pops,_ Wayne corrects. _i had corn pops._

_And i bet you ate the whole fuckin’ box didn’t you._

_Maybe._ Wayne spits twice while the Joker flushes the toilet presses another tissue into his hand and asks him if he’s done. Wayne blows his nose and shrugs, now he’s breathing (too) shallowly because he can’t help but pant from the stabbing pain in his head; he’s got a knife in his ribs and an icepick behind his eyeball and Wayne catches himself half-wishing that it were a real icepick in his brain slivering away at his frontal lobe until the ability to feel misery is driven from his body the Joker

is slowly tugging him away from the toilet bowl and up against him. _We’ll clean you up in a second Princess,_ he whispers, snaking one arm under both of Wayne’s. _Sit up a little straighter so you can breathe, i’ve gotcha_. Wayne does, even though his ribs scream in protest _Deep breaths_ , the Joker says as he tugs the blanket away. Wayne tries to breathe deeply tries to get enough air in without coughing while damp fabric swipes across his mouth and moves into his hair. Wayne 

hadn’t even heard Alfred come in but now he can feel his butler close beside him, cracks his eyelids enough to make out Alfred’s shape in the dark, wiping his face and looking very worried. 

_He needs a line in him,_ the Joker says to Alfred. _With zofran_. Alfred nods. 

_A little morphine would do him good as well_. 

_I don’t..._ Wayne hisses and grits his teeth as the pain in his head ratchets up again _i don’t need it_

 _If our positions were reversed right now you’d be trying to push fentanyl into me_ , the Joker points out. _You need the hydration in any case, and oxygen once you’ve stopped vomiting. You'll be fine if we just get this over with._

 _It’s just,_ Wayne manages to gasp. _A migraine._ He squints at the bathroom mirror’s reflection sees Alfred and the clown both

rolling their eyes in unison 

_Are you kidding me Bruce._ The Joker hitches Wayne up a little higher against his chest. _i think we can safely file this situation under ‘migraine with severe complications’._

_That’s putting it lightly,_ Alfred remarks,

and the Joker sniggers.

_Not you too Alfred,_ Wayne moans before his breath catches and he coughs again gasps again as his stomach clenches as pain radiates through his skull flashes sharp up into his side

_Hook em up,_ his enemy says quietly, and the IV stand squeaks softly as Alfred tugs it over to them. _He’s definitely going to need both_ , the Joker adds, nodding at something out of Wayne’s plane of vision and a sudden panic rises in him

 _Zofran’s fine but i can’t take morphine_ , he rasps. _i just got off the stuff, i can’t. Start again or_ Wayne’s own voice cuts off against his will as he gags and his chest flares the migraine flares and he’s consumed he’s retching again, throwing up diluted coffee and cereal into a towel that’s appeared in his hands

 _You’re fine, Princess_ , the Joker whispers, holding him steady. _It sucks but you can handle this_. Wayne nods, spits into the towel. Alfred raises a bottle of water to his lips and he takes a sip, swishes and spits that into the towel too there’s still 

a knife in his ribs 

and an ice-pick behind his eye

but Wayne keeps trying to breathe, tries

his damndest to make his lungs work normally when everything else in his body is so horribly out of synch when he’s sprawled back against the Joker’s shoulder panting blinking sweat out of his eyes and wishing he were dead that he was in the ground just so he’d never have to feel pain like this again but just like that

the wave passes, and the pain dies down a little.

 _You trust us right._ The Joker’s fingers cup Wayne’s chin and gently guide his head to the right until he’s looking at his butler. _Me and him._ Alfred looks Wayne in the eye and all Wayne can see in him is concern, all Wayne can see is i’ll take care of you and please and then he hears himself saying

 _Do it_ before he’s even processed that he’s giving in but everything hurts too much, his stomach is a mess his head is throbbing in time with his heart and he’s so tired that the idea of a 

little assistance suddenly doesn’t sound so bad. 

_Keep this here_ the Joker murmurs as he slides the ice pack up to cover Wayne's face. _We’re gonna have to turn up lights to see what we’re doing_. Wayne nods and a pulse oximeter clips onto his finger. He feels Alfred squeeze his wrist in a silent reassurance. 

_See?_ The clown nuzzles a kiss into Wayne’s shoulder. _You’re all right_. Wayne manages a smile as the Joker tugs him closer, holding him even now while he’s covered in sweat and old blood and corn pop vomit. The two men in the room would go to the ends of the earth and back for him if he asked them to. The thought is enough to

bring Wayne close to tears but 

he forces them back hard, shudders with relief at the frigid swipe of rubbing alcohol over a spot on his forearm followed by the quick wiggling of a needletip under his skin then without warning  
Wayne’s stomach contracts jarring his ribs hard and every muscle in his torso cramps as he lurches forward involuntarily, the ice pack slips off his face and Wayne feels the needle  
rip from his skin hears the Joker curse before there are fingertips pressing down on the wound hard sending sparks of pain into Wayne’s arm. He bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut again; normally the sight of blood doesn’t bother him at all but he’s so nauseated that he’s not willing to chance it now. Instead Wayne turns his head into the crook of the Joker’s neck breathes in blood and sweat and gunpowder while warm fluid drips sluggishly down to his fingertips 

_It barely nicked the vein_ , Alfred murmurs and the Joker hums in agreement. Wayne swallows hard and tries to breathe through it all through his butler’s steady gloved hands bandaging the wound tightly, pushing down on it until the bleeding stops _i’m going to try again now,_ Alfred says as he prods Wayne’s opposite forearm. The action is again 

followed by the alcohol followed by the needle followed by tape strapping across his inner elbow and the Joker’s voice graveling _you’ll feel better in a minute_ into the shell of his ear. As the morphine hits Wayne’s bloodstream all the muscles in his back tense up for a moment 

before they relax,  
and he sinks back. 

_You did good,_ the Joker says. Wayne’s not exactly sure who it’s directed at. It doesn’t matter. 

Alfred hands him the bottle of water and he drinks a little. Then there’s a sudden hiss from over Wayne’s left shoulder as Alfred opens the oxygen cylinder, and then Wayne’s butler’s hands are around his face slipping the tubing over his ears. Wayne pushes the prongs up his nostrils, takes in the clean dry oxygen.

 _Thanks Alfred,_ he sighs, and his butler smiles in a tired kind of way as he retrieves the blanket and tucks it around Wayne’s body, until he’s covered from head to toe. 

_You’re very welcome, Master Bruce. Now get some rest._

The lights flicker out and Wayne hears Alfred retreat quietly into the other room.

 _Just relax for a bit,_ the Joker tells him, taking his hand. _Get that oxygen saturation up._ Wayne squeezes the Joker's fingers leans back into him and floats on the crest of the artificial relief of the old familiar opiate. He can feel the nausea and pain draining away

like the sea at low tide. 

After a minute Wayne can breathe deeply again. After another minute 

his heart has slowed, he’s warmed up, the Joker’s bloodsweatgunpowder smell is all around him

and he's home.

After a while the Joker nudges at Wayne with his chin and asks if he’s ready for bed.

 _i’m ready to sleep for a week,_ Wayne sighs and the Joker chuckles. 

_Yeah you look it,_ he remarks as they disentangle from one another. _Have you seen the shadows under your eyes recently._

 _Have you seen yours?_ Wayne asks, looking him over. His makeup is streaked and faded, his hair is pulled back into a ponytail. He doesn’t look tired like Alfred did but there are grey shadows smudged under his eyes and there’s something strange in his expression that Wayne can’t place. It’s as if all of his edges soften a bit, when they’re together like this. 

The Joker ignores Wayne's question and instead asks him another: _Do you need to piss before you lie down?_

_Yeah._

_Can you get up if i help?_

_Yeah._

Wayne's nemesis grins at him, takes his hands and pulls Wayne upright very slowly, digging the heels of his shoes into the tile grout and leaning back until they’re balanced against one another. Wayne clings on as best he can but between the morphine and the exhaustion he’s pretty drained. The acute pain has faded but his muscles still ache and his brain feels like it’s full of nothing but air, like if Wayne didn’t have the Joker anchoring him he would float up and hit the ceiling headfirst. 

__

_i need to sit,_ he whispers so the Joker kicks his blanket out of the way helps him pull his boxer briefs down and holds onto his arm while he sits on the toilet. It takes a second for Wayne to relax his muscles enough to go, but once his stream starts the clown says

 _i can..._ and points at the door. Wayne just laughs, flinching as it jars his ribs. 

They have so few boundaries between them anymore.

They can’t afford to have them.

So the Joker sticks close, and Wayne leans forward, rests his forehead against the Joker’s hip. _Thank you,_ he whispers but the clown just says

 _You don’t ever need to thank me_ , and winds his arms around Wayne’s back.

Wayne finishes and the Joker helps him up checks the dressings on his IV catheter and takes him to the sink to wash his hands. Then his nemesis deposits him on the edge of the bathtub, says _Sit tight, i’ll grab you some new clothes_ and slips into the other room. Wayne can hear the two other men conversing again:

 _He’ll be better off sleeping in the infirmary tonight_.

_Yeah. i’ll pull up a cot so i can keep an eye on him._

_There’s no need for that. He bought a bed that’s big enough for two._ The Joker’s laughter echoes warm and low.

_That’s cute. Go set up his meds, I’ll help him change and get him settled._  


* * *

It’s half-past eight when Wayne finally crawls into a nest of bleached white sheets and warmed blankets, with the Joker sitting cross-legged on the mattress beside him. Even though the morphine’s left him pretty dazed and a little unsteady Wayne did manage to brush his teeth (the Joker helped) and run a wet washcloth over his skin (the Joker insisted on helping) so at least his mouth doesn't taste like bile, and he's clean.

The Joker arranges Wayne’s oxygen and IV tubing, helps him lie on his right side so that his face is half-pressed against the Joker’s thigh and tells Wayne to go to sleep. Wayne does try but it isn’t long until all the events of the past twenty-four hours begin to return to his head (the Hangman the chase the young lieutenant and his wife and his children, all dangling from crudely-fashioned nooses) and just like that Wayne’s mind is racing—he’s never able to slow it down when it gets this bad even when he’s exhausted and ill and high 

_How are you still conscious right now?_ The Joker asks after a while. _What, are you still pissed about your gig with Hangman that went wrong last night._

_Five people are dead because i got a headache, and i forgot something that i needed._

_i know._

_It’s my fault that they died._

_No,_ the Joker says firmly. _No, no it’s not. You were compromised and they died, there was nothing more you could have done. Now shut up and rest._ His cool fingertips touch the back of Wayne’s neck and begin to rub, 

and Wayne melts. Both the clown’s hands are on his neck now pushing into the muscles at the base of Wayne’s skull until they release and he can’t help but sigh out relief, and just like that

he’s floating again. He can feel his mind winding down, 

nearing the station, as if the Joker’s slowly put on the brakes. 

At some point Alfred returns and Wayne can just barely hear him moving around the room putting things back onto the shelves and into the cabinets. It’s kind of nice, he thinks: having them both here. 

Eventually the Joker’s ministrations turn to long languid strokes up and down the center of Wayne’s back and Wayne’s thoughts continue to slow,  
they stop racing,  
until all have dropped out but this one: how 

the same man who takes such joy in bloodying Batman’s nose and chipping his teeth and bruising every inch of his body is sitting beside Wayne now, touching him gently. Wayne knows that if he falls asleep he could wake two hours from now and find the Joker gone, because in spite of everything the Joker will still always be a drifter, and a criminal. His work always comes first. 

Most of the time, anyway. 

Wayne’s never told the other man this: how much it disturbs his psyche to wake to cold sheets and the colder reality that the next time they meet will likely begin and end in violence. He’s never mentioned how difficult it is for him: watching the hand the Joker extends to him withdraw so quickly,

and without warning. 

_i won’t leave,_ Wayne’s nemesis whispers, as if he’s just plucked that last thought from Wayne’s mind. He’s given no indication of how long he’ll stay, or under what conditions—all that the Joker has promised is that Wayne won’t wake up alone. It’s enough, Wayne thinks. Any kind action from the Joker is enough.

(Most of the time, anyway)

Wayne exhales and settles back into the soft mattress into the hard sleep of the deeply exhausted into this perfect window in his consciousness, where the Joker will always be sitting beside him, rubbing his back, 

while Alfred moves around the room like a ghost.


End file.
